


The Lights Flicker Out

by Colorfullyminded



Category: Gravity Falls, Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Anyway this is old but it deserves to be on ao3, Heavy Angst, I still love this story even though it's sad, I'm Sorry, Imported this from my tumblr, M/M, no happy ending, you're all gonna hate me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 12:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16516631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colorfullyminded/pseuds/Colorfullyminded
Summary: He didn’t text you anymore to let you know not to wait up, and you stopped waiting up. You made breakfast, but he ate in the kitchen or on the go, and you always ate in your studies. On the nights he did come home early, you slept inches apart and always with your backs facing each other. Even when you wanted to turn around and spoon him, you didn’t attempt it. You even found the idea, when a time ago it would have been so natural, to be ludicrous.You were no longer an old married couple. You were far, far worse. You were the couple that had given up all hope. You didn’t fight…but you didn’t love either. You didn’t get mad…but you didn’t get and happier. You were the numb couple. No….implying that you two were a couple would be a stretch.You two were just numb.





	The Lights Flicker Out

_How does someone end up here?_

 

How do you go from the peak of the mountain, to sinking below the sea? When do you know it’s coming? When are you supposed to expect it? Why isn’t there a neon light that flashes above your head, letting you know that you’re reaching dangerous levels, before it’s too late?

 

_How do you end up here?_

With a packed suitcase, one foot out the door, the other hesitant to leave. He keeps his back to you, and you wish he would have the decency to look at you when you go. But he doesn’t, and a part of you knows it’s better that he doesn’t. You don’t think you can bare to see his face right now. You probably couldn’t bare to see the dead look in his eyes when he stares at you, seeing nothing. You are nothing to him.

 

All those memories you shared, all those moments of happiness you cherished, those cold nights, wrapped in each other’s warm embrace, sharing shy kisses as your hands tried to find each other in the dark. All those memories. In one second, they’re meaningless. Those memories shatter like glass, like the picture frames hanging on the walls that you know he’s going to remove when you walk out the door. You’re stepping on glass memories, and it stings.

 

_How did you end up here?_

–

Life seemed so simple when you were children. You met him at school. You were a freshman in highschool, and he was on his last year of middle school. But he was clever. Oh, was he brilliant! Even at such a young age, you found him sharing a math class with Junior’s. And he managed to get into the highschool level band practice; that’s how you met him. You wouldn’t have met him any other way. Sure the high school and middle school shared one, large building together, but they stayed on the lower floors, and your lunches were different; middle schoolers getting to eat early, and heading in just as you were coming out, so you had never much interaction with them before. But you came into band practice as if it were any other day, and he waltzed right in, minutes before the class was to start. He walked with a purpose, his body language reading, “I belong here. I earned my spot here.”

 

But his face conflicted with his body. His eyes screamed, “Please don’t look down on me.”

 

You could see the fear in his eyes, the one he tried to disguise as an feigned confidence. You understood that feeling. You were so used to feeling out of place in a big world; the black sheep of your group. You knew that feeling of sweaty palms and shallow breathing. You knew that look, because it used to be the one that gazed back at you in the mirror every morning before school.

 

Knowing that feeling all too well, you pulled up a chair for him, gently patting the seat to coax him over. He saw the gesture, and his eyes met yours. He had large hazel eyes, with little flecks of gold. Freckled eyes to compliment his freckled nose. The fear in his eyes faded as he gazed at you. And somewhere in the middle of it all, you felt something spark in your heart, like a run down car roaring to life.

 

You shared a smile from across the room.

 

—

 

You took him under your wing. You told him all the secrets of the school.You spent long hours at each other’s house, rehearsing music together. You helped him with english homework (his weaker subject), and in return he helped you to not fail Algebra Ⅰ. A bond had formed between you, and you grew closer throughout the year.

 

Time passed and you began to notice a shift in the air. Sometimes you would turn and catch him looking at you. He would turn beet red when he was caught and avert his gaze. You found it cute. You thought he was looking up to you. You thought he was nervous because you caught him admiring you.

 

How naive and dense you were.

 

It would take you next year to realize that his gazes were more than just a simple admiration for his upperclassmen. It would only hit you, when you found yourself looking at him in the same way.

 

–

 

You got together in sophomore year, from a misunderstanding no less. You thought he liked Jason Funderberker. And he assumed that you liked Jason Funderberker.  _As if you’d ever like Jason Funderberker._  But you two had a good laugh about it at the pizzeria. His sister called you both idiots, and your brother said nothing, stuffing his face with greasy pizza, but you knew he was proud of you.

 

You gave your brother's hair a ruffle. You wouldn’t have been able to do it without him.

 

–

 

Childhood romance was pure. Everything was sweet, and your world was always tinted in a rose colored glow. Hand holding was always done with nervous giggling and shaky fingers. Kisses were done out of sight, noses bumping together, before you had to angle your head to kiss him properly. Dates were always heart-poundingly terrifying, as you waited inside your car just outside his house, checking your hair in the rearview mirror to make sure it wasn’t sticking up in back; checking your breath to see if you needed another mint. You both didn’t want to get bombarded by nosy parents or his sister’s flashing camera, begging for just “one more photo.”

 

Life was simple when you two were young. You shared in adventures. You told stories of your escapades through Gravity Falls and the Unknown. When you two had to separate for the summer, him going down to Oregon to spend time with his Great Uncle, you would mail each other mixtapes, listening to them right before bed. The words taped to the tape had faded a long time ago, but whenever you pulled out one of the tapes, you knew exactly which one it was and the contents that would be on it. Along with the mixtapes, you sent each other postcards in scribbled handwriting. His postcards were always written in code. Yours were always written in poetry.

 

You two were shy and tender; your stomach’s fluttering with that butterfly love. Young Love.

 

_When did the butterflies stop fluttering?_

–

 

The first time that change might have been coming, was when the late night cuddling stopped. Nights when he would come home late from work, tired and exhausted, sometimes a little dirty and sweaty. You stayed up waiting for him, reading a book by lamplight. Even if you finished the book hours ago, you would reread it again. And again and again, until you heard the front door close. Sometimes you’d read the same book you finished weeks ago.

 

You heard the creak as he ascended the stairs. The doorknob to your room turned tentatively as he tried not to make too much noise. He was worried he’d wake you. But you were always waiting up for him. He would peek his head in the room, see the light on, and catch your stare. Then came that long sigh of exasperation, like you waiting up was some kind of burden on him. You never understood it back then, but now you start to think you understand what it meant.

 

“You don’t need to wait up for me every night.” He groaned, opening the door wide enough to slip inside. Not caring about being quiet as you were the only living resident in the house, he kicked the door shut, stripping off his work clothes as he walked to the bed. You closed your book, and placed it down on the nightstand. You flicked off the lights and scooted to the edge of the bed.

 

Clad in only boxers, too tired to go to the other end of the room and put on sweats, he’d roll into bed, groaning upon contact with the pillow. In the past, he would squirm his way into your arms, falling asleep on your chest to the sound or your erratic heartbeat. Now whenever you mentioned it, his reply would always be the same:

 

“Not tonight Wirt.”

 

As you laid in the dark, unable to sleep, something that would become a common occurrence as the two of you slowly drifted farther and farther apart, you wondered when the night would be. It hadn’t been tonight for many nights now. You were starting to get annoyed, but you didn’t want to say anything. You knew he was busy with work. Young and fresh out of college a year early, he had already landed an archaeology job that he seemed to be enjoying. You didn’t want to disrupt his work schedule because you were being needy. But you would be lying if you said you didn’t miss the extra warmth, the soft breathing on your chest, the tickle of his hair under your chin. You were still so young, and yet, you felt like you were at the old married couple stage in your life; that stage where you were sick of each other, but had been together for so long, you didn’t see a point in breaking up now. You didn’t want to be that though. You wanted that childhood giddiness back, that knot in your throat romance. You wanted the warmth of his arms back.

 

You should have seen this as the first sign, but you were ignorant in your love.

 

Or maybe you were just  _stubborn_.

 

–

 

He started texting you to not wait up. You hated texting. You liked the old fashioned way. You were the last of your friends to still send letters instead of emails, something none of your friends liked. You called people instead of texting. He knew that. He knew how much you despised texting, and yet here you were, staring at the digital letters or your ancient phone, the text mocking you, as if saying that the fabric of society you held dear was unraveling right in front of your eyes.

 

_God you had to stop getting lyrical when you were hysteric._

 

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, wanting to know why. Why would he be late? Was he having to finish a job that required him to stay overnight? Or was he out at some tavern, getting trashed with his colleagues? You wanted to call and demand an answer, but you worried he would get angry at you if you called.

 

So for one time only, is what you would find yourself saying to yourself many nights in the future, you risked your traditional methods to write him a text.

 

_Why aren’t you coming home?_

You waited up, staring at the screen until you passed out, your phone still clutched firmly in your hand, never to receive an answer.

 

You would wake up the next morning and find him passed out on the couch. Silently, you snuck into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. The scent of bacon would wake him up and he would shuffle sluggishly into the kitchen, sinking into his seat. You two would sit at the table and eat in uncomfortable silence. You would spend the time gathering up the courage to ask him about last night, but when you would open your mouth to speak, he would already be walking to the sink to dump his dirty dishes. Then he’d mumble something about getting ready for work and leave you alone, staring down at your half finished plate, no longer with an appetite.

 

He’d leave, with maybe a quick peck to your the cheek, though those were becoming scarce, and he would be out the door. And you would be in the silence of your house for the rest of the day, trying to come up with something for your novel, but too frustrated to get the words you wanted out.

 

The cycle would start over, and you’d find yourself sitting up in bed, reading a new text, similar to the one from the night before that he probably just copied and pasted.

 

“ _Don’t wait up for me._ ”

 

—

 

You really were starting to act like an old married couple. You were arguing now. You can’t remember a time before when you two used to fight. Maybe you bickered here and there, but those were short fuses that never even lasted a day. You were making up and making out by the end of the evening. Now it seemed like you were fighting over the simplest things. Didn’t cap the milk right? That was an argument. Left the TV on when you fell asleep? That was an argument. Someone didn’t do the dishes? That was a full on war.

 

It wasn’t you though. You weren’t the one who started them. In fact, none of the arguments you had been getting into lately, were initiated by you. They all came from him.

 

You started to get this sinking realization that he was purposely finding things to yell at you about. Everything you did seemed to be a problem with him now. If you even cleared your throat, he would assume you were being condescending. When you tried to tell him you weren’t, he wouldn’t believe you and started getting snippy, which would eventually set you off. Then you two would fight, and, having become “so sick of it”, he would grab his coat from the coat rack, pick his keys up from the counter, and mutter something about needing fresh air.

 

He started the arguments, and yet he was the one who was always getting up to leave.

 

You began to think that was his goal from the very start. Every argument ended with him slamming the door on you. He wanted a reason to be pissed at you, so he could justify when he walked out the door and didn’t return until hours later.

 

You were so pissed at him once, that when you felt the oncoming stage of an argument creeping up on you, you beat him to the punch. You picked up his keys and threw them at him, “IF YOU WANT TO LEAVE, JUST FUCKING GO!!! DON’T SPEND 15 MINUTES TRYING TO GET YOURSELF RILED UP SO YOU HAVE A REASON TO WALK OUT!!! JUST FUCKING GO!”

 

The look on his face you’ll never forget. His mouth hung open in shock, his eyes wide. Then his jaw set and he gave you the most bone chilling glare, the kind that made you regret everything you had just said. He stormed past you, and out the door.

 

You didn’t hear from him for a week.

 

—

 

The fighting you thought was bad. But nothing could prepare you for the next stage. This one you couldn’t stand.

 

It was the blank stares.

 

No longer did you argue. He stopped picking fights with you. But you wished he would. You wished he would yell at you. You wished he would get angry. Hell! You wished he would pick up a vase and throw it at your head. Anything, anything, to get his eyes to spark with some,  _some_ , emotion.

 

But he gazed at you with eyes like a dead fish. He talked to you with a somber tone, like he had no effort left to give.

 

He didn’t text you anymore to let you know not to wait up, and you stopped waiting up. You made breakfast, but he ate in the kitchen or on the go, and you always ate in your studies. On the nights he did come home early, you slept inches apart and always with your backs facing each other. Even when you wanted to turn around and spoon him, you didn’t attempt it. You even found the idea, when a time ago it would have been so natural, to be ludicrous.  

 

You were no longer an old married couple. You were far, far worse. You were the couple that had given up all hope. You didn’t fight…but you didn’t love either. You didn’t get mad…but you didn’t get and happier. You were the numb couple. No….implying that you two were a couple would be a stretch.

 

You two were just  _numb_.

 

—

 

It came on any Monday. In fact, you wouldn’t even be able to remember what Monday it was. It was just a Monday. You were in your study, trying to finish your novel that was past due. You hadn’t been able to write in it for months, and you kept telling your publisher you were so close to the end, you just needed more time. But here you were, chewing on your pen, a habit you had picked up from him, as the papers in front of you remained blank. You weren’t close to done. And you knew eventually your publisher would figure it out too. And she would drop you. And you would be out of work.

 

You heard the soft knock on the door. You hummed out in reply, letting him know to enter. The door opened and your dark study was bathed in the hallway light. You didn’t turn to face him. He was probably just going to tell you he was going out again.

 

“I need to tell you something…” He sounded nervous, a tone you hadn’t heard from him in a long time. That should have gave you a clue to turn around and pay attention, but you were too focused on your work that you were not getting done to give him your attention. Besides, he hardly ever gave you the attention anymore.  _Why should you?_  You hummed again in reply, to let him know you were at least listening.

 

_“I cheated on you…”_

The pen dropped from your mouth, clattering onto the desk. Slowly, you swiveled around in your chair to face him. He had the decency to keep his head down, hands clamped together, thumbs twiddling nervously. The only sounds you could hear was your heartbeat drumming in your ears, and the sound of the clock on the wall…

 

…letting you know your time was running out.

 

“I just….thought you should know,” he said, looking up as he did so. Your eyes met. And you could see it. He sounded ashamed, but his eyes remained unphased. He did not regret what he had done, he was not truly remorseful for his actions, he was not thinking of you. In fact, you could already guess, by the jacket he was wearing, and the slacks he had put on, that he would be going out tonight to meet with _someone else_. He had just admitted to cheating, and yet he was still going out to see that person. And you could see it all in his eyes.

 

_Because he was looking at you with that dead fished expression he always carried for you solely._

You open your mouth, trying to figure out what you should say in this situation. Can you even reply to a comment like that? You hear a voice speak, and you’re surprised to hear that it’s your own voice speaking. You’re even more shocked by the words that come out.

 

“So you’re not coming home tonight?” That’s it! That’s all you can say. Out of everything you want to say, everything you should say, that’s the only thing you can come up with?

 

He nods his head, hand already on the doorknob, ready to close it. “Do you…need me to pick something up on the way home?” He asks, trying to exchange formalities, like this is just another normal conversation between you two. You must be going mad, because you answer it with the same casual flippancy.

 

“Just some milk if you'd be so inclined .” He nods again, mutters something low under his breath that you can’t quite hear. Maybe it’s an “I’m sorry,” but you can’t tell. Then the door shuts and you’re shrouded in darkness again. But the darkness of your study, which once brought you comfort, that made you rest easy, now feels claustrophobic and dirty. In your head you repeat your words over again. Like a broken record, it skips on those words again and again.

 

You wanted to say if he could pick up the pieces of your broken heart on his way out. The one he had just finished stepping all over and tearing apart. But no, your final words had just been, “Just some milk if you'd be so inclined.”

 

You turn back around, and pick up your pen with trembling fingers. You feel sadness, and you feel empty inside. But you don’t cry. You’re too numb for that. And that horrifies you. You’ve become so numb to this life, that even hearing that you’ve been cheated on isn’t enough to make you break down sobbing. Your hands move on their own accord, scribbling something on the parchment below you. When you register that you’ve written something, you look down at the paper, reading what you’ve written.

 

_It’s a terrible love, and I’m walking with Spiders._

–

You stay. Somehow, in your fucked up little brain, which may have short circuited a thousand years ago, you stay. You don’t mention it. And he never brings it back up. But every time you walk downstairs to prepare breakfast, you see his eyebrows raise, like he’s still wondering what you’re doing here.

 

You’re wondering what you’re doing here.  _Why are you here?_

 

It’s not like you don’t have a place to go. Your brother would be happy to let you stay with him. Heck your parents would probably be thrilled to finally hear back from you after all these years. It’s not like you have a reason to stay. You have more reasons to go. But here you are, cooking breakfast to a man who you’re sure doesn’t love you and has stated that fact quite obviously by his actions. But you stay, and allow the tension to eat away at you from the inside. You set your plate and his plate down at the dining room table, and then, you do something you haven’t done in a long time. You sit down at the table with him.

 

And if that weren’t crazy enough, you decide to go completely off your rocker and ask him how work is going. He almost does a spit take and you can’t blame him. You would too. But right now you’re having an out of body experience, because there’s no way this can be your voice asking him these questions. There’s no way that that’s you sitting at the table. You’re not interested in what he has to say. But you are, and you can’t figure out why.

 

When he’s certain this isn’t a trap, he tells you about a find he had discovered. He talks animatedly, making wild hand gestures as he does so, and you find yourself hanging on his every word. You start talking, really talking. Like the kind of talking you’ve been avoiding for years. You sounds like your old selves. You even manage to share a laugh, a true, genuine, rib pinching laugh. You wipe the tears from your eyes, and then look up at each other. You see something in his eyes. It’s not a dead expression, but the look is so foreign, or maybe it’s just so old, that you can’t remember what look it is. But he smiles at you, and you find your lips curling up into a shy smile.

 

He looks down at his watch at that moment, realizes he’s going to be late, and rushes to finish. He throws his dishes in the sink and runs into the living room to put on his shoes. You follow after him, not really in the mood to eat anyway. He’s struggling with one shoe, while simultaneously fixing his tie, the door half open. You grab his keys from the counter and hold them out for him. He reaches over, and without even thinking, leans up to press a kiss to your lips.

 

“Thanks, I-” he stops dead in his tracks. His face changes from a stricken white, to a dark red. He looks at you in paralyzed fear. You’re unable to respond. He hasn’t kissed you like that since you were 22. It’s been 6 years, and you’ve forgotten what it’s felt like. You feel your heart hammering in your chest, betraying you. It should not be beating like this. It should not be beating for him.

 

He backs away from you slowly, stuttering out an apology. You’ve forgotten how cute he used to be. You want to slap yourself for having the thought. You shouldn’t be acting like this.  _Why are you acting like this? What is wrong with you?_

 

But your chest is on fire, and your stomach is queasy. You swear to god you feel butterflies.  _Did they always feel this nauseating?_

 

You don’t hear the door close; you can’t concentrate. You grip your chest, a hot white pain bursting from beneath your ribcage, out of reach, unable to be subdued. It hurts so fucking much and you just want to reach in and rip it out, but you're human, and you can't. _You're human, and that's why you feel as you do_. You feel hot tears of anger drip down your face. They burn like acid, but they feel so good. You don’t remember crying ever feeling so good. But it feels like fucking heaven. And it helps with the fluttering in your stomach, the one you’re sure is going to explode from your stomach, taking all your entrails with it.

 

You’ve finally figured out why you’ve stayed. You’ve figured out why you haven’t left.

 

_You kept waiting, hoping, that he would tell you he loved you again, just one more time._

—

 

And now you’re here. With a packed bag of all your personal belongings (the ones that matter). For once, you’re the one walking out. You’re the one who gets to leave. But unlike before, there is no coming back. It’s been made very clear. And now that you have the opportunity to leave– _now that you have no choice_ – you find yourself wanting to stay.

 

“We can't keep doing this Wirt…This is toxic. What we're doing is unhealthy. And you know it. You're better than this. I'm better than this! So why _are_ we doing this to each other?” You should have known that it was coming. You should have expected it. It had been there all along. You knew he didn’t love you. You knew you were staying in something unwelcome and broken. You knew long ago, the moment he started to lose interest. And yet you had blindly ignored it, wanting more than anything to go back to the time of your childhood, when the love was simple, and pure, and sweet.

 

_And the love was there._

 

You know it’s not your fault, and in fact, it wasn’t his fault either. He had stopped loving you long before the cheating. Could you even really call it cheating when you hadn’t touched each other in years, when you hadn’t kissed, or even said I love you? Was it cheating if one of the people in the relationship had checked out of it years ago, and the other person had remained long after his welcome was overdue? Should you have been surprised and hurt when he started bringing other people into that room which you refused to leave? When you knew you weren’t welcomed anymore? When the door was pretty much left open for you?

 

No, in a way, you know it was still wrong on his part. That at any point he could have said it was over and ended this charade, but he didn't. He could have ended this parasitic relationship long ago. But just like you, he remained, consciously accepting this terrible mess the two of you made together. He kept you around, just like you had kept him around, even though being together was worse than being apart. Maybe he too, was trying to cling to something that was slipping out of reach. Maybe he too longed for the love that was simple. Maybe he too, was like you. And you were like him.

 

You didn’t know anymore. You're so drained, emotionally exhausted from it all. But even with nothing left to go on, with nothing left to keep you here, not even the hope that he would one day say those words that rung of childhood innocence, you find yourself struggling to leave. Everything is broken in this house, but this house was once built on something. Love. Yes, you can vaguely recall the sentiment, as nostalgia makes your eyes water. This was once built on love. Your love. His love. Our love.

 

How sick were you? To be torturing yourself like this? You were literally killing yourself. And you were barely even 30. You were allowing yourself to be consumed by the beast. The thing you had warded off as a young teen–--no, your brother was the one to protect you from the beast long ago. You didn’t have your brother to rely on this time. Which might be why you allowed this to go on so long.

 

You look down at the floor, at the suitcases at your feet. Your hands twitch. You don’t want to pick them up, but he’s waiting for you. He’s been waiting for you to go. You bend down and pick up the suitcases. When you look up, he’s turned around. He must have been watching you from the reflection of the grand father clock. The fireplace illuminates his face. He looks sad. He looks sincerely sad. But is he sad for you, sad that he allowed this to go on so long, or is he maybe remembering the past and getting the same bitter taste of nostalgia that you feel choking you up?

 

“I’m sorry it turned out this way. I’m so sorry Wirt.” A tears slips down his cheek. You can’t speak, so you just nod. He wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, trying to keep his composure.

 

“Goodbye Wirt.” He says at last, and gives you a smile. A sad, farewell smile. He knows this is the last smile you’ll ever see from him.

 

“Goodbye Dipper.”

 

You find you can’t return the smile, no matter how hard you try.

 

_How did we end up here?_

–

 

You’ve been renting a cheap motel for the past month. The place smells of booze and their are empty bottles of beer everywhere. You promise that when you leave, you’ll clean it all up. You don’t want the housekeeping to get fired. You promised Greg you’d call back sometime and tell him to meet you at an airport. But that was a week ago. You know you should go home, stay with you brother, get your life back together. But right now you don’t want him to see you like this. You don’t want anyone to see you like this.

 

Your book remains unfinished. You haven’t work on it at all. It’s just a half finished mess, with random scribbles and poetry here and there. A few musing’s of a neurotic mind. Kind of like your life right now.

 

You swing the bottle back, spilling a little on yourself. You don’t really care at the moment. You don’t even like booze, but it’s the only thing that’s been helping you get to sleep as of late. You need something heavy to cloud your judgement. Cause if not, you’ll spend all night thinking of him. You don’t want to think of him anymore. That part of your life is over.

 

But it hurts. Because that was a big part of your life, whether you want to admit it or not. He was a part of your life; he made up most of your stress, as well as your pain and heartache. And yet, he made up the good parts of your life too. The joy, the pleasure, the warmth. Now you have none of that.

 

You’re just in a dirty old motel, with half a bottle of booze, your phone shut off because if you turned it on, your brother would be on the other line nonstop. You need to get yourself back together. You need to get out of this rut before the end of the month. You have to clean yourself up, shake off the rust, and go see your brother. These are things you remind yourself as you down the rest of your liquor. These are things you promise yourself, as you fall back on the bed, tipsy, leaning closer to drunk. Tonight is not the night for that though.

 

Tonight you will black out, your brain and all thoughts of him gone from your mind like a static TV. You will feel numb and warm all over, instead of the heart-wrenching depression you feel right now. And you pray, as you fall asleep, that you’ll choke on your own vomit in the middle of the night to end all this pain. But you know that’s not what’ll happen. Tomorrow you’ll try to get your life back together. But not tonight.

 

_Tonight, you’ll let the lights flicker out._

**Author's Note:**

> ((Imported this from my tumblr)) 
> 
> An Oldy but goody! Finally deserved to be on ao3 alongside Jason Funderburker.
> 
> There are actually some things added to the story. Mostly small stuff, but I did work a little more on it, made some corrections here and there. So it's not completely the same. A lot of it is, but not completely. I hope you still enjoy reading this old classic.


End file.
